


Half-Life²: Anticitizen

by Ethan_Livemere



Category: Half-Life
Genre: Half-Life 2 Beta, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-21
Updated: 2020-07-22
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:22:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25428364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ethan_Livemere/pseuds/Ethan_Livemere
Summary: Half-Life²: Anticitizen is a reimagining of the beloved story of Half-Life 2, based on early beta versions, cut concepts and other things you never got to see. Follow the journey of Gordon Freeman through familiar-but-slightly-different locations such as City 17, and less familiar places like the Air Exchange and the Borealis. (Also follow this story on Tumblr, I post updates and accompanying images there)
Kudos: 1





	Half-Life²: Anticitizen

**Author's Note:**

> "What is Half-Life²: Anticitizen?"
> 
> Half-Life²: Anticitizen is the name of the project I was dumb enough to start that consists of me writing out Half-Life 2's story based on many of the old beta concepts and original ideas.
> 
> "What to expect"
> 
> My version of the story will draw inspiration from various sources, including Raising The Bar, the Half-Life wiki and any other sources I find about Half-Life 2's original story. Now, because there are many different versions depending on what stage of production you look at, I will mix everything I find at will, INCLUDING the final retail version of Half-Life 2. Several cut enemies will be integrated, some existing characters and enemies will be based more on their concept art or old models than their final versions (I might include images when I do this, just for extra clarity), sometimes I'll just make stuff up in order to make this story work as an adaptation.
> 
> Half-Life 1 is untouched in this story, it is canon as it appears in-game. So no Kingpin or Mr. Friendly. And yes, this story does take place 10 years after Half-Life 1, rather than the canonical 20 years. That's just what the original G-Man scenes say.
> 
> Please let your interest in this project show, it'll help get the next chapter done faster. This story can also be found on Tumblr, by user "Ethan Livemere", all posted under the tag "anticitizen". It would be greatly appreciated if you went to show it some love on there too :) (it's also where I will be posting updates on the process, as well as images to help visualize some of the things in the story)
> 
> Any and all suggestions/feedback/questions/criticism are welcome! (as long as you are civil)

**Half-Life²: Anticitizen**

**Prologue**

It starts as a very distant, rhythmic tapping. Barely audible, but any noise sounds ear-deafening in this void where all sensory inputs are non-existent. Nothing to be seen but an endless, black abyss. No sounds of gunfire, no smell of burnt flesh and blood. For days there had been nothing but that, and then suddenly everything had been stripped away in one instant. Now there is not even the comforting weight of my suit confirming that I still have a body. It is not sleep; in sleep you either dream or are completely unconscious. This… is something else. Like my mind is floating just out of reach of my body. Like I am looking at my own thoughts through backwards binoculars.

Time. Another such thing that seems to have lost all meaning in this place. When left alone with nothing but your thoughts to hold onto, every minute seems to last an eternity. I have tried counting them multiple times, but I always lose count. How long have I been here? It feels like it was centuries, but also only seconds ago that I entered that cursed portal, naively hoping that the man with the briefcase would give me a way to atone for my mistakes at Black Mesa. Maybe this is it. My atonement. Maybe this restless slumber is purgatory, endlessly thinking about everything I should and shouldn’t have done. If it is, it’s no wonder people fear death.

The tapping grows louder. It sounds like footsteps. Is it the devil coming to claim my soul? Before I have the time to dread or ridicule that thought, an invisible door slides open and a blinding light floods in. I can somehow avert my eyes, finally having a point of reference again, some form of orientation. When I look down, or, at least, what I think is down, I can faintly see the outline of my body. But this, too, is like I am seeing it through someone else’s eyes, distant and disconnected. The footsteps come to a halt. A brief moment of silence, and then a chilling voice: “Rise and shine, Mr. Freeman.” I direct my eyes back toward the light and look into the eyes of the devil.

His face is distorted like a badly fitted mask. As if someone tried to build a human but didn’t quite succeed. His eyes are pale and lie deep in their sockets. His lips are curled into a twisted, emotionless smirk. I can’t escape his gaze. He doesn’t blink.

“I do believe I’ve kept you waiting long enough.” The movements of his mouth are awkward and sluggish. It’s like all his facial muscles that are vital to conveying emotion are paralyzed. Everything about him is just ever so slightly off. “Not that the passage of time has had any meaning to you… but elsewhere it’s a different story.”

The light from the doorway grows brighter and for a brief moment consumes everything, including the man. Hope flares up inside me that he is gone, but when the flash of light dulls his soulless eyes are still staring into mine. But there is more now: behind him is a blurry wasteland of dead grass, dried riverbeds and clouded skies. He is standing further away from me, and I can more clearly see his blue suit and the black briefcase in his right hand. His other hand moves up and nonchalantly wipes his vest. “Ten years is a long time, Mr. Freeman. Long enough for humanity to swallow its pride. Long enough for the first scars of whiplash to begin to heal. Long enough to…”, he produces a strange, stuttering gasp for air, “… forget how things used to be.”

I start hearing another rhythmic sound in the distance, but it sounds different from the footsteps. More mechanical. The surroundings fade away and he continues: “But you haven’t forgotten, Mr. Freeman. You still remember how freedom felt. You remember how the air used to smell.” He is starting to become translucent. The machine sounds grow louder. A hiss of decompression. A shriek of stainless steel. I see myself get pulled back as in a dolly zoom. “So wake up, Mr. Freeman.” I am now inside a long room with dark windows and rows of seats on either side. A chill sends feeling back into my body as the man slowly fades.

“Wake up and… smell the ashes.”

* * *

**Chapter 1**

**Now Arriving: City 17**

The shrill scream of a train horn makes me jolt up as numbness starts leaving my body. I pant and shiver from the cold air. As my heartbeat calms down I start taking in my surroundings. I am sat on a row of hard plastic chairs that extends along the side of a dilapidated train car. The gentle shaking of the cold surface beneath me and the clattering sound I had been hearing before tell me it’s moving.

“Hey there buddy, calm down. You scared me,” a gentle voice sounds. I turn my head and see a dark-skinned man, probably in his late thirties, sitting in a seat on the other side of the aisle. His eyes are dark and tired and his short beard is trimmed irregularly. His arms are resting on a plain black suitcase in his lap and his clothing consists of blue denim pants and a beige shirt. “Had a bad dream?” he asks.

I rub my head as I turn, taking my feet off the chairs to sit normally. I now notice I am wearing the same, rough fabric clothing as the other passenger. Well, so much for having earned the H.E.V. Suit. At least I still have my glasses.

“I didn’t see you get on,” he continues talking. “Are you being transferred to City 17 as well?”

I take a better look at the interior of the vehicle. The worn down red carpet that stretches from one end of the car to the other is littered with scraps and cigarette butts. About half of the ceiling lights are either dead or flickering. The walls and many of the windows are covered with posters and advertisements, most of them torn off or faded beyond recognition. Here and there, there is an intact, more recent looking poster of an owl-eyed man looking down on the passengers with a solemn expression. All of them have some variation of the same brief message: THE CONSUL SAYS… RELAX. THE CONSUL SAYS… REPORT.

“This is my third transfer this year, you know,” my co-passenger continues, ignoring my continued silence. “I spent my last trimester in City 49, and 45 before that. But no matter how many times I get relocated, I… I never get used to it.” He softly shakes his head and looks down at his fingers, playing with a loose bit of leather that has peeled off his suitcase. “The name’s Samuel, by the way,” he says in a lighter tone, sitting up. “I noticed you don’t have a tag on your uniform.” He brings his hand up to his chest and taps a stitched-on strip of grey fabric with his index finger. It says ‘G-11789RF’. “You’d better do something about that before a Metrocop catches you without one.”

My head spins. The sudden overload of impulses is too much for my still foggy mind. While trying to piece together what is going on I look to my left. There is another passenger sitting some ten feet away from me, his arms crossed and his suitcase on a seat next to him. I spot a third passenger, an Asian-looking woman, at the far end of the car, sitting next to the door. Everyone is wearing the same uniform. None of them look like they want to be on this train.

I suddenly realize that I have been avoiding looking out of the windows. There is a pit in my stomach, a sickening feeling of dread that tells me I already know what I would see. I do it anyway. I shift in my seat, turning my head around to look out of the window behind me. It’s even worse than I expected. Just like in the vision, the landscape is a desolate wasteland. Skeletons of trees crown the small hills that pop up all over the plains. The ground is cracked and there isn’t a stream of water as far as the eye can see, which isn’t all that far. The sky is completely covered in dark, greenish gray clouds that sometimes drift down to envelop the land in a disgusting smog. The sun is nothing more than a slightly brighter spot in the thick carpet, standing low above the horizon. Here and there a silhouette stands out from its surroundings by its jagged, square shape: abandoned buildings that look as if they have been picked up and dropped from a great height. A pipeline runs parallel to the rails, and I see another train track in the distance.

Just when I think the world is completely devoid of life, movement in the periphery of my vision catches my attention. Something is running beside the train, flashing past because of their lower speed. I recognize the green, three-legged creatures. Their piercing, supersonic squeals still echo through my head. Looking further into the distance again, I start noticing more signs of life. I spot a bullsquid, the large amphibian beast with acidic spit that almost cost me my life several times, in a muddy ditch. I am also relieved to see what seem to be normal crows flying to and from some of the trees, but there are some things creeping around that I have never seen before. A flat reptile with a wide mouth and four chimney-like limbs protruding from its sides, with tufts of hair on the end of each of them. Tall, tripedal insects with ambiguous organs dangling between their stalky legs. Somewhere deep inside, the scientist in me is fascinated by the alien sights and wants to study them more closely. But that man died the moment the crystal hit the beam. This Gordon Freeman just wants to avert his eyes and hope never to see anything again that reminds him of how terrifying the universe can be.

A train slides into view on the parallel track. It seems to be freight train, but it’s a model I have never seen before. The locomotive is tall, streamlined and has a sharp nose with a single headlight illuminating its path. I don’t see any windows or other indications of a control room. The thing is made of a dark, obsidian-like metal that also covers the wheels, making it seem like the train is just sliding over the dusty ground. The cars directly behind the locomotive are in the same style, but further to the back there are also some more normal looking cars with containers. I notice Samuel has gotten up from his seat and is looking over my shoulder. “Look!” he says, pointing in the distance. On the path of the other train, a gargantuan shadow looms over its surroundings, hunched over, arms spread as if bracing for impact. Its dark blue exoskeleton and single glowing red eye almost seem to mirror the image of the vehicle speeding towards it. A low, wailing horn sounds from the train as the distance between the two shrinks. The monster doesn’t flinch. It stands its ground, determined, until the train hits. The locomotive doesn’t even slow down. The monster, despite being quite a bit taller than the train, gets violently pushed out of the way and, though it is hard to tell from this distance, quite possibly cut in half by the locomotive.

“Razor Trains, man,” Samuel says with a hint of awe. “I would feel much safer if we were aboard one of those.”

Our view of the other train gets obstructed by a nearby building. There seems to be a sudden increase in the number of ruins near the track, as brick walls suddenly make up all we can see through the window. “Looks like we’re almost there,” Samuel notes. I try to look ahead and see we are heading towards a gigantic wall made of the same dark metal as the Razor Train. Behind it, tall apartment buildings and skyscrapers stand in much better condition than the buildings on this side of the wall – though they, too, show signs of ruin and neglect. “There it is,” Samuel says, “City 17.” He scoffs. “They all look the same from the outside, don’t they?” The wall grows ever nearer, until everything suddenly goes dark as we enter a tunnel, the only source of light now being the few functional lamps on the ceiling. “I heard living conditions are supposed to be much better in 17 than they were in 49, though. The air is much cleaner here since it’s so close to the Air Exchange. I guess that’s why the Consul moved here.”

The other male passenger, who visibly has been growing increasingly bothered with Samuel’s talking, suddenly speaks up: “Yeah, well, there’s also much heavier security, so if you don’t want to get us all into trouble, you’d best quiet down a bit once we’ve arrived.” Samuel looks at the man offendedly. He opens his mouth for a rebuttal, but decides against it and looks the other way, shaking his head.

When we emerge from the tunnel, it barely makes a difference for the amount of light streaming in through the windows. The already dim light the sun manages to squeeze through the clouds is now also blocked by the tall buildings. It might as well be nighttime. The view outside is somehow more depressing than the wastelands: near-empty streets lit by slender lampposts, only inhabited by abandoned cars, trash and a lone citizen clutching something against his chest as he makes his way from one patch of light to the next. The railway is elevated a good fourteen feet above the street, and now and then I catch a glimpse of people behind the windows of the second floors we pass by. They fly by too fast to properly see what they are doing, but the rooms in which they reside all seem as bare and featureless as the beige shirts they are all wearing.

The train starts to slow down and I see the female passenger stand up and pick up her suitcase. The man also stands up and grabs onto a metal bar that runs along the ceiling for stability. Shortly after, the train comes to a shrieking halt at an empty platform. Once the carriages have stopped shaking and the train lets out a sigh of relief, the doors on either end of the car open, letting in a cold draft that paces down the aisle and brings life to the scraps dotted around on the once-red carpet. Samuel stands up and arches his back. “Well, end of the line,” he mutters before following the other passengers outside. I stand up on still shaky legs and do the same, stepping down onto the hard ground of the outside world.

The train platform is a desolate concrete slab, flanked on both sides by the steel and plexiglass walls of trains and cut in half by a row of benches and pillars that support the overhead shelter. At the end are stairs leading into a hole in the ground that hungrily swallows the passengers heading down. I keep following them, heading down into a chilly tunnel that reeks of rotting trash. Our footsteps echo as we walk past branches of the tunnel that have signs with arrows and numbers to guide non-existent travelers to their platforms. As we follow the main flow of the tunnel I start hearing a distant voice from up the large stairs at the end, but by the time I reach the stairs, it has stopped.

We emerge into what must once have been the majestic main terminal hall of the station, but has now been transformed into a twisted version of its original purpose. A roof of translucent glass arches over a gaping abyss that cuts through the hall, leaving only a narrow strip of the original black and white tiled floor around it. The gap is about thirty feet across and has a chain link fence surrounding it. I walk up to the fence and look down. Several train tracks run along or across the ravine at differing heights and angles. Several trains are stationed on the rails, suspended above the seemingly bottomless gorge. All of them are the same model as the train I saw plow through the creature on the wastelands – Razor Trains. The smoke that pours down from the locomotives and the tunnels, combined with the cycloptic headlights on the trains, make for a mesmerizing display of light and shadows.

There’s a walkway across the chasm, accessible through stairs to my left. Seeing no other way forward, I take the stairs up to the walkway, only to see a strange figure standing in the middle of the path, watching over the passengers traversing the room. A man in a black uniform with red markings on the chest and shoulders. His face is enveloped by a white gasmask with lenses that glow a faint yellow. His leather glove is clenched around a baton that he softly taps against his hip as he follows passing civilians with his obscured eyes. I suspect this might be one of the “Metrocops” Samuel mentioned, and I know that whatever he is, it can’t be good news for me if he sees me.

As I’m looking around for another way, my eye falls on a large vertical screen hanging in the center of the largest wall, in front of a circular stained glass window. It displays only a set of strange symbols on a bluish green background, but suddenly a face appears on the screen. I immediately recognize it as the balding, solemn-faced man from the posters on the train. Under the face, a message appears: THE CONSUL SAYS… WELCOME.

“ _Welcome_ ,” the face starts speaking through unseen speakers, “ _Welcome to City 17. You have chosen, or been chosen, to relocate to one of our finest remaining urban centers._ ” His voice is stoic, but strangely comforting. “ _I thought so much of City 17 that I elected to establish my administration here, in the Citadel so thoughtfully provided by Our Benefactors. I have been proud to call City 17 my home. And so, whether you are here to stay or passing through on your way to parts unknown…_ ” The Consul smiles warmly, “ _Welcome to City 17. It’s safer here._ ” The Consul’s face fades away, and the screen goes back to the illegible symbols. I look back to the Metrocop, only to see him looking back at me. I freeze.

“ _Move along_ ,” a voice sounds from the mask, distorted as if through a walkie-talkie. He gestures with his baton, and I realize it’s in my best interest to just walk past him as if nothing is going on. I have just passed the Metrocop when I make the mistake of looking down, through the metal grating, into the abyss below. I am not usually one to get vertigo – I had gunfights on cliffsides and on rocks floating between dimensions for crying out loud – but the sight makes my head spin, and I have to lean on the railing for a moment. As I’m catching my breath, I hear the low bellow of a Razor Train horn coming from underneath me. I carefully look down again to see another train arrive on a track that runs along the side of the ravine. Judging from the disgusting greenish splats on the locomotive, it might very well be the one I witnessed plow through the monster – or maybe that is something that regularly happens. I then notice something walk to the nose of the train on a steel platform besides the track. From my top-down perspective, it’s hard to tell what it is – but it sure doesn’t seem to be human. I see brown robes, a white, oval head and long, slender arms holding something that resembles a flamethrower. It points the nozzle at the train at starts spraying it with jets of sickly green… gas? Liquid? Fire? Energy? It’s hard to tell, but when the spraying stops and the being walks over to the precarious, narrow platform on the other side of the track to start spraying the other side of the locomotive, it seems to have removed all of the filth from the train’s hull.

The voice of the Consul startles me as he repeats the same welcoming message. I glance over my shoulder and am relieved to see the Metrocop doesn’t seem to be paying attention to me. I decide to get a move on and quicken my pace as I continue traversing the walkway. When I finally reach the other side, I go down another set of stairs and see a doorway leading into another room. The tables that are spread around it and what seem to be the remains of a shuttered counter lead me to believe that this used to be cafeteria. Now it just has a few tired travelers resting their heads on their hands, the only voice heard being the Consul’s coming from another large screen. I make my way between the tables and dilapidated potted plants to another doorway. Passing by, I hear a man at a table quietly mutter to himself: “They’re always departing but they never arrive… and the ones that do arrive, they never leave… you never see them go, they’re always full… no one ever gets on but they’re always…” He keeps muttering, when there’s suddenly screaming on the other side of the room. I see a man struggling against two Metrocops, thrashing around and shouting that he didn’t do anything. One of the Metrocops lifts his baton, which suddenly glows with electricity, before bringing it down on the man’s back, bringing him to his knees. The man doesn’t stop struggling and tries to crawl away. The other Metrocop pulls something from a holster on his belt and points it at him. There’s a loud bang and then a brief silence… “ _Welcome to City 17. It’s safer here,_ ” the Consul’s ever hollower sounding message echoes. The two Metrocops drag the man away. Everyone goes about their business, and I decide to do the same.

The doorway from the cafeteria leads to a corridor. Posters on the wall catch my attention. They are bigger than the ones I saw on the train, but look just as much like textbook propaganda. They all bear the number 17 in one of the corners. One of them depicts the Consul with the words “ _It’s great to be part_ _of the greater good_ ”. Another depicts a Metrocop and says “ _Civil Protection: They’re here for you_ ”. But one particular poster catches my attention: it shows a familiar figure in brown robes holding a flamethrower-like object. I can now more clearly see its head: it’s white, metallic, and shaped like flattened ball. It has two beady, tubular eyes and a third orifice that probably serves as its mouth. “ _Keep it clean… or he will_ ”.

As I’m walking through the corridor, looking at the posters, I notice a vending machine. “ _The Consul’s Private Reserve_ ”. It takes me a moment to realize that it dispenses cans of water. For free, it would seem. I’m looking at the buttons on the machine, considering pressing one, when I feel a hand on my shoulder. A bewildered looking man spins me around and grabs me by my shoulders, bringing his face very close to mine.

“Don’t drink the water,” he says. His eyes frantically dart around and his breaths are shaky. “They put something in it, to… to make you forget. I don’t even remember how I got here…” He slowly lets go of me and looks around. “I…” His voice trembles and he walks away, shaking his head. I decide to pass on the water.

The corridor leads me around a corner to a fenced-off waiting line, where citizens cue up to be scanned by a camera-like contraption hanging from the ceiling. Most people are sent straight ahead, but some get taken aside by a Metrocop and are escorted through a gate marked “NOVA PROSPEKT”. I’m not sure what exactly is going on, but I know it is a situation I would rather avoid. I turn around to leave, but am suddenly stopped by a voice: “ _You, citizen!_ ” I turn back around and see a Metrocop beckoning me from a side door. “ _Come with me, now!_ ” I look around, weighing up my options. Can I run? No, that’s ridiculous. The scene in the cafeteria proved that Metrocops are ruthless, and without my H.E.V. Suit I don’t stand a chance against multiple armed individuals. I have no choice but to follow him and hope I can overpower him when he’s alone.

I follow the Metrocop into a narrow hallway, past a door behind which I hear a man protesting and trying to defend himself. I get lead into a small office. “ _Back up_ ,” the Metrocop says with a soft push before closing the door and walking over to an alien looking console with a triptych of monitors above it. I frantically look around the office – a desk, a filing cabinet, another of those ceiling scanners, a chair with leather straps on the armrests and suspicious red stains on the floor around it… Anything I can use as a weapon? Perhaps the desk lamp…

While I am frantically looking around for a way out, the Metrocop pushes some buttons on the console and the scanner disappears into the ceiling. “ _Yeah, I’m gonna need me some privacy for this,_ ” he says with a chuckle. Before I can make a run for the lamp, he turns around and brings his hands up to the sides of his head. “ _Now…_ ” There’s a click as the front part of the mask comes loose. When he takes it off, I, for the first time in too long, look into the eyes of a friend. “About that beer I owed ya!”


End file.
